The Man in the Marble Garden
by One Shot Gun Shot Loz
Summary: One-Shot. A man, younger than he looks, sits in a memorial guardian after the war, and thinks. Who "He" is is up to you- I know who I want him to be, but I want you to work him out for yourselves. Inspired by Remembrance day. Complete.


**A/N:** I'm not sure if the Americans among you will know, but November 11th is Remembrance day in Britain and Europe- the anniversary of the signing of the armistice of World War 1, when we remember all those who have died for our country, and those who were left behind. This was inspired by a Remembrance service.

I you _really_ want to know, then you can e-mail me, but who "he" is is entirely up to you. I know who I want him to be, but I want you to make up your own mind about the man who sat in the memorial garden with no one to remember with.

**The Man in the Marble Garden**

It was a cold day, but the sun was shining. A tall, thin man who looked older than he was walked across the Hogwarts grounds, having come from the direction of Hogsmeade. He made his way across the lawn, and arrived at his destination.

"We meet again." he mused, as he stepped through the wrought iron gates. His tone was pregnant with a thousand sad thoughts, and unless you had been stood inches form his face, you would never have heard him say it. His breath was short and his throat was strained. He took his usual place, on the end of the bench at the end of the semi-circle, and looked at his feet. Then at the wreaths at the foot of the cenotaph. Then at the plaque on the cenotaph. After he had read every name twice, he looked back at his feet, still struggling for breath. He wouldn't be long.

Every year he returned, on the same day, to this same spot, just north of the Great Lake, surrounded by immaculately kept hedges on three sides, a polished marble wall on fourth, and red roses either side of the ever-open gates. Once inside the grounds, he did not need to think. His feet carried him to his place, and sat him down on his bench, and his hands would lazily hold one another in his lap, while he leant forward and looked. He was only here for the briefest of visits, the longest he could stand to be in the presence of such crushing silence. But what else was there to do? He sat, every single night, drinking himself into oblivion in the Hog's Head, until he could barely stand. He would then slide off to his rent-free room (they wouldn't _HEAR _of a "war hero" paying rent...) and sleep until mid afternoon the next day. He might have something to eat then, and go to buy a daily Prophet. He'd sit in the village and read it, then return within an hour to the Hog's Head, and repeat the whole process. He did _have_ a house, but ever since it had become his inheritance, he hadn't wanted to stay there. He couldn't sell it either, it was all he had left of them. Either way, it was a monkey on his back.   
The reason he sacrificed a precious hour of drinking once a year was to come to visit the "Marble Garden" as it was known. A small, pretty garden of remembrance, for all those past students who had fallen in the Dark War. He didn't know what to think of the monument. It was ugly. A crude, weatherworn shape, most definitely ugly, but at the same time beautiful. It was all that was left of 48 beautiful lives, and the only thing he knew that could hope to live forever; a memory carved in stone. He hoped every day that his own memories would die, because he already had, and what little heart he had left broke whenever he remembered. But he had always felt duty bound to remind himself, once a year on the anniversary of the final battle, because every other day of the year he tried his very best to forget. He owed them at least one day. 

When he tried to forget, it was not to forget the war itself. It was not the bad memories that he most wished to be rid of, but the happy ones. The ones when he ran around without a care in the world. The ones when he had played quidditch in the stadium to the sound of cheers from his housemates. The ones when he had friends, friends who didn't care about his inadequacies. The ones when he had had his health. The ones when he had had happiness. The ones when he believed that he was fighting for the right thing. Those were the ones that ripped his heart out every day, because every day he lived on without them. Without the happy memories, the unhappy memories meant nothing. Changing the past was undoubtedly impossible, but if he could _just_ forget...

He couldn't forget any more than he could bring them all back, but there was no other way out. He couldn't end it all, or else what had his companions fought for? What had they died for, if not to keep those who made it alive? Suicide was no more an option than desecrating their graves and throwing a stinkbomb at the plaque in front of him. But how he wished that his name had made it 49. And that is what he thought when eventually he began to think. That his loneliness, here on a bench dedicated to another fallen hero, was worse than anything Voldemort could ever have dreamed up and bottled. There was not even anyone to remember with.

He tried to shake off the horribly familiar feeling of being so completely alone. He scuffed his feet about a little- but even in that he found himself alone. You know where the ground under benches is usually bare, because people's feet rest there so often? That isn't what happened here. There were four benches made of beautiful marble that was streaked with a pale bluish-purple. A small silver plate on the upright back of each bench was surrounded by images of the house mascots and each proclaimed their affiliation to the dead of the clawed one, the Lion, the Serpent or the Ave. There were no barren patches where shoes scuffed away the grass here. Even though the gates were never closed, there were very few willing to enter the small memorial garden and take a seat, and he was pretty sure he had worked out why. The children at Hogwarts knew exactly what those 27 had died for, and they were not ungrateful. They knew they owed their freedom to them, and their respect was freely paid. He had watched them watching him in the reflection of the polished marble wall that stood behind the monument, and well he knew the look on their faces. It was awe. They were overwhelmed that he had fought, that he had played such a huge part, and that he had been the one who stood standing after the final battle. He was the only one who survived that day; there were of course those who had been admitted to St Mungo's before the last stand and recovered, but he was the only one who had actually stood and fought that one last time and lived to tell the tale. They thought that a place on those benches was a right of a few, the few who had risked carving their names into eternal martyrdom on the cenotaph. So the ground under the benches wasn't scuffed at all. There were only ever a handful of visitors a year, and they were seldom of a happy enough mindset to go swinging their feet. He smiled a heavy smile for a moment; even the ground was against him.

He sat up and leant back onto the back of the bench, and looked at the sky. He hated doing it, because it was pointless; he felt like he was looking for something that wasn't there, and wished he had kept his eyes on his shoes. Perhaps it was the fact that he could look into infinity up there, and somewhere in infinity, surely there was a happy ending? Or perhaps it was just a cliché thing people did when they were about to cry. Either way, a tear rolled down his tilted cheek, and turned very cold in the nipping wind. With every glance he felt worse, so he just closed his eyes and sat in silent reverence.

After a short while, he heard voices coming from the castle, and looked up towards the entrance. A few hundred children came pouring out, all happy enough. Some running off to a lesson in the greenhouse or on the edge of the forest, some slowly walking because they had an hour to kill. It wouldn't be long now until someone saw him, and then he could go. He just waited for one person, student or professor, to see him. It was a strange tradition, but it was almost his way of letting them know that he was still alive; he still hadn't given in. Just so that someone knew he was there. He knew that it would get back to Professor Flitwick that he had been, though Flitwick probably already knew. The position of Headmaster at Hogwarts seems to come with a Sixth Sense as a perk of the job.

He again cast his eyes over the roll of the lost, and as he always did when preparing to end his yearly pilgrimage, he made his silent apologies. His eyes lingered first on the name of the woman who had been the love of his life, because he had never told her that he loved her enough. Then on the man who had been the closest of all to him, the one who had doomed him to life by sacrificing his own. Then his mother and father, whom he had not known half as well as any child should, and then those who had been his guardians after his parents' murder, who were mourning that loss themselves. They saw him to adulthood, but not much past. A long list of regret, from beginning to end, disguised as a roll call. He put his face into his hands, and prayed to whoever was listening that they would all forgive him whatever caused his guilt. And then he did it again, looked up into the sky, just to check if his happy ending was there. It wasn't.

He bowed his head for a few moments, and then, giving his frost bitten face a final wipe to check for stray tears, he stood and walked back through the gates. He stood for a moment, and gazed up at the castle. If he had come out of the war any other way, it would have been how Hogwarts came out of it. A bit of external damage, but essentially, nothing had changed on the inside. As it was, internal damage, physical and otherwise, was what was killing him, but to all intent and purpose, he looked _fine_. You couldn't see the shadowy hollow where his let lung had been, or the emptiness he felt without anyone to fight for anymore. You couldn't see the scarring on his windpipe that had made his voice a whisper, or the strain on his mind that left him speechless anyway. He began to walk down the path back to Hogsmeade, into the wind. He hadn't realised quite how cold it was on his way; he would pay for it tonight. He wouldn't be able to sleep for the coughing, and the shortness of breath that had grabbed him after only a few steps would remain long after he reached the Hog's Head. St Mungo's had done all that they could for him, but his days were numbered now. He'd thank God for that if he still believed that he was there.

He managed a smile as he stepped onto a new path just beyond the boundaries of the school, and despite his fight with the air, he began to walk with a bit more bounce. It was a cold day, but the sun was shining.

Fin


End file.
